


the ongoing cycle of falling apart

by moaningmyrtle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Illegal Activities, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moaningmyrtle/pseuds/moaningmyrtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You'll burn down your house smoking those things.'</p><p>The lecture was almost laughable now, as Ian ached to drop the burning paper on the floor and watch his furniture catch fire, smile as a sea of flames crept up the walls, and just maybe he'd become apart of the blazing room and the heaviness that sat in his chest might burn with the rest of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A stream of light leaked in through a pane of foggy glass, the city lights never seeming to darken even as the hand on the clock reached three in the morning. The smoke that streamed from the end of the cigarette is only visible when it collided with the light, pillowing in the air as it drifted towards the open window and out into the night. 

It'd been nearly two years since Ian's trembling fingers had been wrapped around the rolled tobacco, and as he stared down at the half-empty pack and inhaled on his tenth, a statement he'd heard a hundred times repeated itself over and over in his mind. 

'You'll burn down your house smoking those things.'

The lecture was almost laughable now, as Ian was aching to drop the burning paper on the floor and watch his furniture catch fire, smile as a sea of flames crept up the walls, and just maybe he'd become apart of the blazing room and the heaviness that sat in his chest might burn with the rest of it. 

Minutes passed before the sparks reached the filter, searing the insides of Ian's fingers and causing him to swear, accidently dropping the smoke into a coffee so black that it had already left a poisonous taste on his tongue. As the flame went out in the caffeine, his only light lost it's source of heat and Ian was left alone, sitting in an empty kitchen with shaking limbs and a throat so swollen that he couldn’t speak without the threat of losing what little sanity he had left. 

As his only distractions became useless, and Ian laid his tired head down on the table, he couldn’t do anything to avoid the waves of memories that began to flood his thoughts. One after another, he began to remember good times and bad, the hours he'd spent curled up next to Elijah as they teased each other or shared moments that they'd never tell another soul, the man he was sure he'd spend his life beside. 

It was as if all his dreams and goals for the future had revolved around Elijah, and now suddenly, his life held no direction whatsoever. Of course, it didn’t happen as abruptly as it felt; when he brought to mind the last few months of their time together, it was more obvious now that his partner had been pushing him further away with each conversation he cut short and every text he'd 'forgotten' to answer. Refusing to acknowledge the distance he put between them made it easier to ignore the signs and pretend everything would be okay, if they'd just made it through the rougher phase. 

In Elijah's words, 'it's not going to resolve itself this time, Ian.' 

The cellphone buried deep in his pocket hadn't vibrated in over twenty-four hours, an yet Ian continued to check it with a small inkling of hope that Elijah's name would light up on his screen, a message or a voicemail letting him know that maybe this wasn't the end for them. Only then would he be sure that the sinking feeling that had refused to give him peace would dissipate, and then he'd finally fall back asleep in a bed that smelled of the only person he wanted most.

"Elijah," Ian shook his phone in his frustration, tears welling in his eyes as he fought the urge to lunge it towards the wall, "Please." 

Dialing his number for the fortieth time felt hopeless, but some small part in his heart believed that there was a chance of a voice answering him on the other end of the line. It was only his voicemail, though, and the automated message caused Ian to choke back a sob, smashing the cell back down against the table. If his screen was destroyed, it didn't matter, because Elijah was gone. 

"Fuck," Ian muttered, the smash of glass bringing him back into reality. Without bothering to check how extensive the damage had been, he shoved it back into his pocket and stood up; the room was dark, but he knew the layout, "I need a drink." 

The outfit that he'd worn out two days ago was starting to feel like a second skin, but there wasn't enough motivation left in his body to change, shower, or even brush his damn teeth; it just didn't feel worth it. Instead, he brushed the stray red bangs from his eyes, pushing the backs of his sneakers down as he shoved open the apartment door like it owed him money. 

It was raining, because it was always raining. The only reason he'd moved to Seattle was because Elijah was positive it would've been perfect for Ian, and so he'd packed all the shit he owned into the trunk of a beat-up car and moved cross-country to meet a man that he'd only met once. If only he'd known that after two years of working dead-end jobs and fighting to make rent, his partner would leave him on his ass in a city that never stopped fucking raining. 

There was one part of the city that he was sure he'd never get tired of- the bars that stayed open until five in the morning.

The locals had given up on using umbrellas, and so Ian didn't stand out as he hurried through the downpour, his clothes receiving a well-needed wash as he bared the storm; it was the first time since Elijah had left, that Ian felt completely awake. Until now, it had been like a hazy dream, and eventually he might wake up and they'd be back in bed together. As November's cold winds stung his cheeks red and his hands purple, the realization was finally dawning on Ian that everything that had happened was real, and it felt much worse than the chill along his bones.

It wasn't a surprise that the bar was practically empty; Ian didn't exactly live in a tourist area, and it was reaching four in the morning on a Monday. The music playing was something that Elijah often referred to as 'indie', and tonight, it instantly drove him insane. Not thinking that it was possible, Ian found himself in an even worse mood than before he'd walked in. 

"How're ya tonight?" The woman, speaking in a raspy voice that proved her old age was well spent, greeted Ian as he pulled out a stool; he responded with an attempted smile that likely transitioned into a grimace, "Can I get ya a drink, son?" 

The menu wasn't necessary, "Shot of vodka."

A bowl of peanuts was set up a few feet away, and Ian stared at it, his mind drifting back to a time when Elijah had thrown one from a distance in an attempt to get his attention. The memory caught him off guard, trapping him with his thoughts for far too long.

"You doing okay?" The bartender asked thoughtfully, setting the small glass in front of where Ian had rested his elbows on the bar, "Long shift?" 

Ian realized then that the bartender had served him and Elijah over a dozen times, but he'd barely recognized her and had to struggle to remember her name, Mary; there was only one person he'd ever look at. With a shrug, Ian lifted the shot to his lips and took a second to appreciate the burn, "You could say that." 

Mary frowned as she noticed the distant look behind Ian's eyes, "Sorry 'bout that, then. Hey- you got a favorite station? It's late, I could-" 

"Classic rock," Ian answered quickly and with wide-eyes, thanking god for a chance to change a song that reminded him far too much of someone he was spending the night trying to forget, "Uh, one sixty three, I think?" 

With a grin, Mary nodded and crossed the bar, fiddling with the radio stations for a moment, "There ya go. Isn't this them Rollin' Stones? My late husband used to just love this song."

Ian did too, admittedly, and decided to order something a little softer as he appreciated the lyrics, "Could I get a pint next?" 

Before she could ask what his favorite choice of beer was, a drunk yell arose from the back of the bar, "Mary! You old bag, you finally fuckin' nailed it with this station!" 

"I ain't that old," Mary called back, mumbling under her breath that she'd only just turned sixty -two and something else about not being completely grey-haired yet. The banter caused Ian to smile, and because it'd been so long, it didn't fade quickly. The bartender continued, "An' it wasn't me! Give this one here a holler, instead." 

The back of the bar was dim, a light bulb out above the only table that was being used, but sure enough, the stumbling man emerged from the dark with a wide smile across his face, "You- you're telling me, you chose this?" 

Ian couldn't help but find the man a bit funny, even if he was plastered, "What- don't look the type or somethin'?

Sporting a short-stubble beard and messy black hair, the stranger slid into the stool next to Ian, just barely supporting himself enough so that he didn't slip right off, "Anyone ever tell you that you got a real nice head of fuckin' hair?" 

The odd-sounding compliment caused Ian to laugh aloud, smiling as he instinctively reached up to push it from his face, "I don't think anyone's ever put it that way, if that's what you mean. Hey, you avoided my question." 

"Oh, shit, right," The stranger shook his head and used his hands to explain instead, "You look like you fuckin' dance to techno, or something, like at those clubs downtown."

"I don’t dance- at all," Ian countered, and for a moment, he found himself almost commenting on how his boyfriend hated the clubs downtown, and how it'd cause him to feel claustrophobic and he'd have trouble breathing. Only, Elijah wasn't his boyfriend anymore, and it'd sound sad to tell a story about your ex. 

"Everybody fuckin' dances," The stranger snorted, reaching across Ian to take a drink from the glass that Mary had set down moments ago. With a swipe, Ian stole his glass back and raised his eyebrows, "Sorry, sorry- now get the fuck up." 

"What?" Ian was taken aback, as he'd never heard someone so abrupt in Seattle, "I just got-" 

The drunk man jumped off the stool, turning to Mary, "You mind turnin' this shit up?" 

Watching as Mary rolled her eyes and cranked the knob, Ian was pulled from his stool and onto his tired feet without warning, "What're you-" 

"'M Mickey," He answered in a slur, obviously misunderstanding the question. The music was louder than their voices, but Ian's laugh had probably echoed the small bar when he looked up to find the intoxicated stranger doing a dance move that resembled someone washing a window to the beat of a song. 

With a slight twinge of interest, Ian shook his head and took a step closer, "Like this." 

Maybe it was because he'd had too much to drink that night, but Mickey seemingly found it impressive when Ian reused a few dance moves he'd learned back home in Chicago.

In an attempt to match him, Mickey tried to roll his hips as he'd seen Ian done, and didn't quite nail it. 

"Watch," Ian smiled playfully, feeling unusually shy as he took a step closer. The music sped up and Ian raised his hands above his head, closing his eyes as he lost himself in the rhythm, feeling as though dancing was just as good a remedy as a pint of beer would've been. 

"Fuckin' right you can't dance!" Mickey's jaw had fallen just a bit, his eyes fixated on ever part of his body that Ian rolled to the beat, "You know, people might pay for that shit." 

With blushed cheeks, Ian shook his head, hiding a grin as he headed back towards his stool. Stumbling behind him, Mickey knocked on the bar beside him, causing their shoulders to fall together, "Mary- get this guy another fuckin' shot, alright?" 

With a doubtful expression, Mary looked over from where she was counting a stack of bills, "You payin'?" 

To Ian's surprise, Mickey reached into his pocket and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. 

"You don’t have to-" 

Mickey interrupted his arguing with a slurred question, "Why you here so late, 'nyways?"

That question was harder to answer than the other man had realized, and Ian looked down towards his hands instead, unable to find the right words and a little worried that he'd sound pathetic complaining about a break-up. 

"Alright," Mickey said after a moment of silence, sliding the freshly poured shot towards Ian, "I get it." 

Ian's heart lifted just an inch, even if Mickey didn't really get it. After he flipped the glass over on the bar, eyes raised with curiosity, he asked, "Why're you?" 

With a sigh that sounded both amused and exhausted, Mickey leaned against the bar in an attempt to stabilize himself and looked up as if he were about to tell a story, "Got a promotion." 

Curiosity only furthered, Ian tapped the bar to let Mary know that they weren't done just yet, "You don't seem… happy?" 

With an overdramatic shrug, Mickey continued to drink Ian's beer before he continued, "Don't know- didn't really want it." 

As Mickey lifted his arm to lazily scratch his shoulder, Ian's attention was brought elsewhere when he noticed a fading scar down the other mans arm. If he'd grown up anywhere else that the Chicago slums, Ian wouldn’t have known that it wasn't just an accidental scar, and that Mickey had been on the wrong end of a knife. Without comment, Ian thanked Mary for two more shots and slid one to Mickey; he'd probably had too much to drink already, but it seemed both men had a little more weighing on their minds than they'd admitted aloud. 

"You know, we are closin' in about ten minutes, boys," Mary noted as she watched them swing back the alcohol simultaneously, clinking their glasses together before they flipped them face down on the surface, "Don't be breakin' my dishes, now. An I'm callin' you a cab, Mickey." 

While it seemed as though Mary was used to this by now, Mickey's eyebrows pulled together as if considering something, and then turned towards Ian with a curious look, "Hold on- you hungry?"

There was no denying that Ian was starving, having lost his appetite quite a while ago, but his immediate response was that Elijah would be upset, "I can't, I'm-" 

Mickey looked away quickly, cracking his knuckles instinctively as he pushed himself away from the counter and called out, "Fuck it. Forget it, Mary." 

Ian called out after him, but Mickey was well on his way out, shoving tables aside as he stumbled towards the doors. They shut with a thud behind him, and Ian sighed, turning back to his unfinished beer. With a last few hearty-sized gulps, he left the empty drink beside a twenty and nodded to Mary. 

"You ain't drivin', right?" She asked with concern, but Ian shook his head, causing his bangs to fall back in front of his eyes.

"No, I'm-" Before Ian had finished his sentence, he'd caught sight of a beat-up outdated phone left on the bar, grabbing it before he quickly finished, "I'm walkin'." 

With unsteady knees, Ian followed the drunk man's path back outside, hurrying his steps as he pushed open the doors and looked left, right, and across the street. It became quickly obvious that Mickey had already hailed down a cab, and taken off into the early morning. The rain still hadn't stopped, and with concern for the phone, he only flipped it over once in his hand before stuffing it into his pocket. 

It wasn't a long walk back to his apartment, and though his heart hadn't lifted from where it'd long ago sunk into his stomach, it might've faded just a bit when he'd danced along side Mickey. 

As he pushed open the apartment's door, the smell of cigarette smoke reminded him of how he'd spent the night before he'd wandered to the bar. Feeling slightly better, he suddenly wished he'd tried harder to blow it out the window. With a flick, Ian switched on the lights and stumbled over to where his bed was hidden behind a make-shift wall out of sheets and tacks. One single tug and the whole wall came down, and the sight of Elijah's handiwork falling to the floor was a bit more satisfying than he would've liked to admit. 

The sheets and pillows were a problem as well, and because Ian was just a little tipsy, he reached over and yanked them off, leaving the mattress bare. Without bothering to pull his jeans off, he fell into the scratchy surface and found that the material felt scratchy and uncomfortable on his skin, yet the difference was refreshing. 

It was only when Ian reached the brink of sleep that he stretched his arm out and over, reaching for a warm body that didn't exist. 

"Oh," He breathed out, because Elijah wasn't there anymore; instead, his hand found empty air. Only, he could still remember the curve of his partners spine, and if he shut his eyes tight enough, almost feel his soft blonde hair beneath his fingers. A dozen thoughts bombarded what had been an empty mind only minutes ago, and suddenly, Ian couldn’t breathe. As if it was happening all over again, a wave of shock washed over him and he curled into the nothingness, feeling betrayed by his own body as he fought for a sense of calm and found that it only got worse; his body shook and his sobs were choked as he struggled to inhale. 

"Fuck," Ian swore, his fist smashing against the mattress, "Fuckin' come home." 

But no one was going to walk through that door, and Ian fell asleep with red eyes and a restless heart, wishing that he'd done a million things differently because maybe then he wouldn’t be alone.


	2. Chapter 2

It had never been so obvious that the mirror was taunting Ian, as he stumbled into the bathroom and nearly cringed at the sight of himself; his eyes were puffy and sore, and grease dampened his hair that had yet to be washed along with the clothes that clung to his skin. 

The sight caused him to miss a time when his hair was messy, not because he'd refused to shower, but because he'd spent a night in bed that didn't involve much sleep. It didn't take long before his head started to spin and twirl, and he prayed that a cold-water shower might get rid of a hangover that he didn't consider before he'd had his third shot. 

Still damp with rain-water, Ian tore his shirt off and left it in the sink; it'd need a wash, and he wasn't sure he'd make it to the Laundromat anytime soon. 

"Shit," Ian mumbled as he dropped his jeans, and they landed with a thud; his phone, and another, slipped out onto the tiled floor. 

It wasn't as shocking now, that when Ian picked up his phone with doubt, his screen remained empty of any sort of communication. Though he was pessimistic to begin with, even a call from his sister or brother might've been better than nothing. What he'd been praying for, a text from Elijah, wasn't in Ian's line of expectations.

Frowning, Ian let the cell fall back onto the pants, and flipped opened the older model that the stranger had left behind at the bar. The night played over a few times in his mind, blurry but not exactly dissatisfying. It'd actually been quite endearing to meet someone who had so obviously been on the same mission Ian was the night before. It wasn't easy to deny that he'd felt a twinge of interest in the stranger, too. Only, a part of him wish he'd just responded to Mickey's invitation out with a simple 'yes,' and found himself damning Elijah's influence even after he'd broken it off. 

Sure enough, Ian vowed silently to act as a single man as long as he was one. 

Mickey's phone screen was lit up with the word 'BOSS' and claimed to have missed three calls from him or her. It was a message anyone would dread, and Ian's stomach fell a bit for Mickey, as he remembered the promotion and wondered if he'd missed something important. Instead of creeping through everything the device had to offer, Ian decided to remain respectful and opened up 'addresses.' There wasn't one listed under 'home,' but he did find a workplace and decided that it'd be his best bet if he was going to make it up to Mickey and return his cellphone. 

"Alright, boss- you're gunna have to fuckin' wait," Ian mumbled, knowing that whoever it was, was probably a little annoyed that his employee wasn't answering. However, after three calls, you'd think they would've gotten the point. 

The shower felt refreshing, and Ian wondered why he hadn't done this earlier; it didn't make the break-up any easier to understand, but the longer he stood under the water, the more time he could spend ignoring the outside world and appreciating nothing but the relief of cleanliness. 

That's why, twenty-five minutes later, Ian finally surrendered and stepped out. The towel that used to hang on the door, however, was Elijah's- it was gone. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Ian muttered, frustrated with the fact that he couldn't have left him a damn towel. It wasn't until then that he walked out into the main room, butt naked, and noticed not just the towel but every single bit of Elijah's stuff was gone. The framed picture on the mantle, a mug that once hung over the sink, and even a spare toothbrush he'd left on the counter. 

Shaking, Ian wanted to refuse the urges to break down and lose himself, just like he'd lost his partner. This time, it was anger that replaced the sadness, and when he noticed one last thing that Elijah had happened to forget, he swung the tiny action figure at the wall. 

"Fuck you!" Ian shouted into the smashing of the plastic toy, watching as pieces flew back onto the floor. 

Feeling suffocated by the loneliness of his own place, he opened to the dresser and found that even his partner's boxers and socks were missing. After they'd shared for nearly two years, Ian felt slightly robbed as he searched through the back of the drawer for a crumpled pair of underwear that he hadn't seen in months. 

Deciding on a hoodie, because it still hadn't stopped raining, Ian matched it with a pair of sweats that he'd often seen Elijah steal from his dresser, and grabbed Mickey's phone before leaving his own behind. It didn't matter if he had it or not, because no one had called, and Ian was sure they didn’t plan too. 

He did, however, silently vow to piss Elijah's memory off by stuffing the cigarette pack into his back pocket.

Checking Mickey's phone, the clock flashed 10:00 AM and Ian ran his fingers through his damp hair, contemplating if he'd call in sick tonight, or suck it up and deal with a series of customers who were just as grumpy as he felt, only they were given a menu and told to order a meal; it seemed easier to pretend he had the flu and re-watch cowboy movies with a bowl of popcorn and a six pack for company. 

The address listed under 'work' wasn't far from the apartment, but it wasn't a walkable distance either. Deciding on a coffee before he subjected himself to the hell that was public transport in Seattle, Ian found himself walking into the same coffee shop he had nearly every morning since he'd moved here. 

It was a modern-looking café with spherical lights that hung from the ceiling, and Jenna, a younger blonde barista with a blond pony-tail and a permanent smile, waved unsurely as he strolled in, "Where's Ken-doll?" 

That would've normally caused Ian to laugh, as Elijah had been something of a model, but instead his chest pinched at the reminder that it'd be a challenge, if not impossible, to find someone like he'd thought he had forever. 

"He's taken leave, Jen," Ian admitted, attempting at casual but the crack in his voice did nothing to hide his grief, "Large black?" 

"Ill slip a sugar in there," She winked, wandering back towards the coffee machine; it was busy, as always, but she'd always been a quick worker. Waiting only a couple minutes, she returned with a cup, and instead of 'Ian,' 'single and looking' was written on the cardboard. 

"How much do I owe ya?" Ian asked, smiling just barely at the message on the side of the cup; it was a sweet gesture, but he really wasn't looking. 

Jenna shook her head and waved him off as she busied herself with another task, "Forget it, alright? I got this one. You, just- go do somethin' fun." 

"Thanks," Ian waved as she smiled a quick goodbye, appreciating the warmth between his fingers. It almost filled the pit of missing the hand he used to hold. 

Foot traffic crowded the sidewalks, and Ian tugged the hood over his over-grown hair as he stepped out into the business of fifth street. It was different, now, to travel through the streets alone, staring up at strangers that he'd previously ignored, and finding that a few even smiled with a morning glow. 

While Ian still didn’t want to accept that his relationship was over, it wasn't hard to think about what he'd been restricted from before; it wasn't going to be week after week of watching Elijah move foreword while Ian struggled to do more than work his shifts, spending the rest of his time waiting for his partner to come home. With a small spark of inspiration, Ian found himself considering what he could accomplish, without the anchor of someone else's schedule. 

A vibration in his pocket brought him down from a mood much higher than he'd been in the day before, "Bring me the fucking money… you know the drill, Hudson? Who's Hudson?" 

The text seemed angry, if not threatening, and yet it had come from 'BOSS.' What type of boss would sway so far from what could be considered professional? As Ian fidgeted nervously on the subway, he had to wonder what kind of workplace he was travelling towards. 

A second thought hit, that maybe it was a joke, or they'd placed a bet on something and Mickey had lost. Whoever Hudson was, Ian had no idea- might the phone have been stolen before it'd been left at the bar? 

Either way, Ian took it upon himself to add his own number, listing the name as 'owes you a drink.' 

"Just what're you lookin' for?" Someone was looking down at his cup, a shy smile on a pretty face that flirted with a wink. Of course, when asked a question so direct, the only answer Ian could think of was Elijah, and then to his own surprise, Mickey. 

"Um," Ian tore his eyes away from the cellphone as he shook himself from a list of troubling questions flooding his thoughts, "I don't- somethin' else. Sorry." 

The stranger's smile quickly shifted into a glare, before she wandered further down the subway with a frown across her expression. It was only a few minutes later that the speakers rang with his stop's name and Ian stepped off, avoiding eye contact; he wasn't sure she would've appreciated a more detailed answer, anyways.

In a neighborhood he'd visited a few times, primarily because of the giant-pretzel stand, Ian counted the numbers above the doors until he came to '635' and stopped. Looking up, he realized it was simply an auto-shop, a large sign advertising their tow-truck services. The garage was closed, but the office seemed open, even if there wasn’t much going on inside. 

No one was around when Ian first sauntered in, looking around and noticing that the garage wasn't visible from the main office, and only a desk and a sad looking plant sat in the front room. Just as he was about to yell out for help, he spotted a bell on the counter and set down his coffee cup, ringing it in hopes that he wouldn't have to leave the phone on the desk with hopes that someone might find it. 

A few seconds later, the same man that Ian had met the night before came out sporting a dirty tank top and a pair of jeans that had seemingly made it to hell and back. For a moment, Mickey seemed in his own world, not bothering to look up at the desk as he mumbled something about needing a new receptionist, but when he finally raised his eyes to greet the customer, Ian's unsteady smile caught him off guard. 

"The fuck- how the hell did you find me?" The words came out much more defensive than Mickey had been twelve hours earlier, his hands immediately on the counter as he leaned foreword with a scowl; it was intimidating, if not a little attractive.

There was no one else in the room, and Ian teased, "Don’t you think it's a bit rude to speak to a customer like that?" 

"That's my fuckin' goal," Mickey countered, breaking their stare to look down at his watch, "Look- what is it that you fuckin' need, cause I gotta-" 

Ian decided not to put him in a worse mood, quickly grabbing the cellphone out of his hoodie pocket and slipping it across the counter, "You left it, and uh- you might wanna talk to your boss?" 

With a temper that seemed to rise with each second, Mickey swiped the phone off the surface and flipped it open, his fists seeming to clench as he read the text, "You fuckin' looked-" 

"No," Ian interrupted Mickey's rant, channelling his most genuine tone, "I swear, I just opened it-" 

The man snorted, but his amusement was laced with anger, "Right, your snoopin' ass opened my phone, and-" 

"I was looking for an address, Mickey!" Ian shouted, and Mickey looked around as if he'd just admitted to robbing a bank, shushing him violently with terror in his expression. 

"Don't fuckin' call me that ' round here, alright? In fact, don't come back to this fuckin' place," Mickey sounded more like he was begging rather than threatening, and Ian nodded as though he knew why the panic had arisen. 

"Sorry," Ian muttered, tapping his knuckles on the counter once before he gave up on having a friendly conversation, heading back towards the door. 

"Fuck," He heard Mickey swear under his breath, and after a moment he called out in a voice a tad less harsh than minutes before, "Thanks, for bringin' it back."

"Thanks for dancin' with me," Ian spun around, flashing a small smile. Once more, Mickey looked suspiciously back at the door as if he was making sure no one could hear them, and it peaked his curiosity, "You're boss got you on a leash?" 

"Look, you gotta fuck off," Mickey's voice dropped once more, seeming more serious about the art of fixing cars than he considered reasonable. Although Ian wanted to feel offended, the auto-tech seemed genuinely worried that someone in the back room was waiting on his return. 

"Alright, alright," Ian mumbled, before adding apprehensively, "Maybe I'll see ya?" 

Mickey's eyes lit up at the offer, but as if he didn't want to appear excited, he shrugged once and looked down at his tattooed knuckles, "It's a big fuckin' city." 

Just before he'd made it out, Ian glanced over his shoulder to find Mickey, staring down at the coffee cup he'd left behind and reading the words with an unsure grin. 

"I am," Ian said, as he pushed open the door, "By the way."


	3. Chapter 3

The flame arose from the end of the lighter and Ian stared and stared, eventually deciding that Elijah was like fire; not just a spark but a whole inferno. At first, you might assume its beautiful, the dancing colours and the smoke that resulted, but it never took long until it engulfed you in it's destruction, and the clouds became just as deadly as they were alluring. 

Ian was wrapped in his own bed sheets, reaching a hand out from beneath the warmth of his comforter to hold a cigarette, thinking to himself that if his sheets smelled of nicotine, it still couldn’t make him as sick as Elijah's cologne. 

A show played too loudly on the television, and it was the first time in years that he didn't feel guilty for turning the volume up so high. Instead, he stretched his legs out and rested them on the coffee table, laughing along with the show. Instinctively, Ian peered to his right, expecting a snide comment about the dry comedy of the program, but as he should've realized, no one was there to make fun of his choice.

With a groan, Ian stubbed his smoke out on a plate and pushed himself up from the sofa. The rooms felt empty now, but also bigger, in a way; an area for him to own completely, and maybe there was a benefit of sharing your space with absolutely no one. The open windows brought in a cold night wind, and he was reaching for another coffee when a ring from the bathroom caused him to quickly forget all about his motivation to move foreword with his shit; in less than a second, hiss mind was racing and he was scrambling to find his phone in a pile of dirty clothes. 

Instead of a contact he'd previously saved, an unknown number lit up the cracked screen. Ian considered ignoring it for a moment or two before he hesitantly answered, hoping that maybe Elijah had been forced to buy a new phone, or called from an old booth. 

"H-hello?" He answered quietly, his breath staggered as he struggled through a wave of nervous assumptions, "Is this-"

"What's your name?" The man on the other end of the line asked abruptly, sounding a little annoyed, "I mean, I appreciated the fuckin' sentiment, but your name isn't here." 

"Well, isn't it enough that I owe you a beer?" Ian answered after a beat, recognizing Mickey's voice and finding that he wasn't overly disappointed that he'd been wrong about the caller. With a soft thud, he slid to the floor and leaned lazily against the bathroom's cupboards. 

"Fuck, usually you'd be right, but I feel like I oughta stop referring to you as that red-headed motherfucker when I'm-," Mickey cut himself off, as if he were about to admit something he hadn't planned on. 

Ian grinned a little suspiciously, "When you're thinkin' bout me?" 

"When I'm bitchin' about you runnin' your mouth at my fuckin' garage," Mickey lied through clenched teeth, as he hadn't spoken a word about their interaction to anyone, "Listen- I need a fuckin' drink, so how's meetin' me at that bar sound?" 

Peering around his apartment, Ian caught sight of the mess he'd left, popcorn on the floor and cigarette butts littering every surface, and decided that now was a better time than any to pretend that he hadn't destroyed his apartment after only two lonely days. 

"Alright," He agreed after a moment's silence, just barely catching the way that Mickey's breath caught on the other end of the line, "Name's Ian." 

"Suits you," Mickey responded somewhat casually, and yet Ian's heart jumped in a way he hadn't felt in months, like butterflies had been let loose behind his ribcage, "I'll see ya, Ian." 

The phone line rang dead, and for a minute, he lay an unsteady palm over his chest and wondered why it had taken so long for his heart to race in a way that made him feel like he wasn't fading; instead, Ian felt alive. 

It was odd, as Ian pulled himself to his feet and stared in the mirror, to feel as though he actually wanted to look good for someone. With a few squirts of nearly forgotten-about hair gel, he spiked the longer ends up and away from his freckled face, pressing down the sides so that they didn't stick out as if he'd had a run in with a balloon. 

Toothpaste tasted bitter after a night of consuming only junk food and caffeine, but Ian brushed until his teeth sparkled white. Smiling, again, felt unusual to do, but it was feeling slightly more genuine as he pulled a clean, white shirt over his chest and wondered what Mickey was wearing. Admittedly, the classic tank-top looked good on him. 

'I like the way that tee clings to you, you should get it all wet,' Elijah had teased once when he'd worn the same shirt, and Ian's smile faded instantly at the memory, catching his own frown in the mirror. Discouraged, he pulled a jacket over top and buttoned up the front, matching it with a pair of worn jeans and boots that he figured would get him through the puddles. 

Absent mindedly humming the song he'd met when Mickey had wandered over, drunk as he'd ever seen a person, Ian switched off the lights on his way out the apartment, double checking his pockets for a wallet that he knew he'd be opening tonight. It wasn't like he minded- he really did owe the guy a drink.

The grey clouds above only left Seattle with a drizzle tonight, and Ian found he appreciated the cool rain, as he wasn’t sure why but his skin felt warm and his cheeks blushed, walking with an excited kick in his step. 

It was only when he rounded the corner and looked up towards the bar where they'd met, when he saw Mickey swing his leg over the side of a motor-cycle. Just before Ian was readying to run up and express just a little hint of jealousy, a black tinted vehicle pulled up much too close behind it. The car wasn't in good condition, and neither was the stranger that stepped out with his hand raised. 

A gun, Ian realized, and stopped dead in his tracks. 

Close enough to hear, he fought the urge to run towards him, knowing that he could very well scare the man into pulling the trigger. 

"Don't make me do this, Hudson," The stranger muttered, mostly hidden by the night but Ian watched as he took a step closer, arm wavering but the weapons aim never leaving Mickey; Mickey, however, wasn't backing up, seemingly fearless as he spat at the cement, "You stole my…my workers! For fucks sake, and now-" 

The armed man shook his head, as if disgusted by the thought, "Now you take my fuckin' buyers. You know, when my main source of god damn income called and told me he found a better guy, I thought it was a joke- can you believe that, Hudson?" 

Mickey stepped even closer, leaving so little distance that the gun was touching his chest and Ian was finding that he could no longer breath. 

"You didn' pay them shit, Mike. You didn' give em a chance," Mickey's voice rose with each word he spat, his arms raised as he pushed bravely against the weapon, "And as for your fuckin' clients, maybe you should take a fuckin' look at what your selling." 

The mans hand was shaking, Ian could see it from a distance, and just as he saw the gun lift towards Mickey's face, the last bit of his patience was lost. 

Thanking that he'd worn a dark enough jacket to become one with the shadows, Ian snuck out onto the street, behind the man with the gun. It was Mickey that noticed first, only meeting the red-head's eyes for a split second before finally, he looked terrified. 

With shaky knees, Ian quickly realized that time wasn’t on their side; with a heavy fist, he hammered down on the back end of the car that had pulled up behind Mickey, and as if luck was on his side, the alarm went off loud enough to shock the man into a jump. 

"What the fuck, who the fuck-!" Ian heard the armed man yell as he quickly crouched behind a van, fading back into a shadow as he waited and waited, only finally finding a sense of relief when the noise of tires crunching on gravel came before a gunshot ever did. 

A second later, Ian was rushing back out into the street, "Mickey, are you-" 

"'M fine- that was pretty fuckin' ballsy, Ian," Mickey sounded like he was torn between concern and fascination, leaning against the seat of his motorcycle as he tried to catch his breath, "I thought he might've seen you." 

"Yeah, well," Ian countered, bewildered at the other man's casual attitude, "I thought you were as good as dead. Who the fuck was that? Who's Hudson?"

Mickey shook his head instead of replying with an explanation, "Nope. Can't do any fuckin' questions right now- get me a shot." 

Understanding that Mickey was the one who'd just been staring death in the eye, or down the neck more so, Ian gave in and nodded weakly, still shaking from head to toe as the other man headed inside the bar. 

"You know," Ian continued, flustered as he followed Mickey as he pushed through the crowd of people that wasn't there the night before, "Some people might call the cops-"

"Fuck no, they wouldn't," Mickey argued defensively as he tore a stool away from the bar, wooden legs scraping the floor while he did so, "Not if they had any bit of fuckin' sense." 

With a firm idea that the auto-shop he'd visited earlier wasn't Mickey's only job, Ian nodded once and pointed at the drink slid across the counter, "Could we get another?"

Ian watched as Mickey tipped the shot to his pouted lips, his expression remaining at ease as he set down the glass with a quiet clunk, "So, fuckin' indulge me- what brought you to a bar, alone, at four in the mornin'?" 

Without over-thinking his response, Ian chuckled for a moment before giving in, "Uh, you know, the same thing that drives everyone to drink at a bar."

"What- lookin' to get laid?" 

Ian nearly spit out the shot that he'd only managed to drink half of, shocked at the certainty behind Mickey's assumption, "No, shit, that's not what I meant." 

"You mean, you're tellin' me you go to the bar by yourself to, what, meet a new friend? Try out the bartender's favorite?" Appearing doubtful, Mickey's eyes narrowed, "Sound's like bullshit, if you're askin' me." 

"I just wanted to fuckin' forget," Ian's voice came out much harsher and more genuine than he'd planned, looking down at his drink as Mickey's expression shifted into concern. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten a single thing; no number of drinks could magically change what had already happened. 

They share a silence that Mickey fills after a minute, speaking quieter as he leaned over an inch, "N' did you? Forget?" 

"Not enough," Ian admits, sighing. 

The music in the bar is neither indie nor rock, but instead simply dance music, maybe the techno-type that he'd drunkenly referred to before. Seemingly contemplating something in his own mind, a few creases in his forehead, Mickey responded with a jump, "What the fuck are we doin' in a bar, then?"

"Tryin' to forget," Ian repeated tediously, but Mickey shook his head as if he'd given the wrong answer in class.

"Well, it doesn't seem to be fuckin' working," Sounding eager, Mickey looked around the bar once before he whispered, "You ready?" 

"For-" 

"Go!"

It'd only taken a second or two before Ian realized that Mickey wasn't intending on either of them paying for the tab tonight. With a quick shuffle, both men snuck out the front door while the bartender busied himself with a rag.

"Get the fuck on," Mickey hurriedly waved Ian towards where he'd already swung a leg over the bike seat, laughing as the red-head nearly slipped on the gravel while he ran, "You good?" 

"Never been on a bike," Ian confessed as the engine rumbled to a steady start, the closeness of him and Mickey's bodies doing nothing to calm his racing heart beat. 

"Well it's a good thing I'm fuckin' driving, then," Mickey smiled over his shoulder once before ripping out of the bar's parking lot, shouting an eager cry into the night. Cheering along, they sped down the streets, a light in the darkness as the wind brushed back their hair and left a chill on their prickled skin.

As he reached a speed much higher than intended, Ian held on a little tighter than he'd meant too, but Mickey didn't seem to mind; the cities walls of mighty buildings soon opened up to the shore, dark and yet the moon still shone off the waves. Seattle wasn't all that bad, but then again, Ian had never been here before. 

The engine died as they neared the line between cement and sand, and Ian cocked an eye brow at Mickey as he began to stare out at the dark water and star-covered sky, "So, you take all your dates here?"

With wide eyes, Mickey slipped off the bike and spun around to face Ian, "First off- this isn't a fuckin' date. And uh, no, actually. Come here alone sometimes, though." 

The sight was almost overwhelming, and Ian wandered a few feet ahead, falling down into the shore's sand as he listened to the waves. As Mickey sat down, he elbowed him and teased, "What- to get laid?" 

"Fuck off," Mickey responded not a second after, only he'd failed to hide a smile and Ian couldn’t help himself, grinning right back, "It's the only place in this fuckin' city where there's space to breathe, you know?" 

"Yeah," Ian agreed, instinctively inhaling through his nose and finding that he appreciated the crisp, fresh sea smell. The sand between his fingers, the usual traffic replaced by the sound of waves, and Mickey's hollow breathing to his right, was more than enough to give thanks that they'd left the bar. If he couldn’t ever return, well, that wasn't really a problem either. 

The pack of cigarettes was still in Ian's pocket, and found when he opened it, that'd he'd smoked all but two. Holding one out for Mickey, they shared a comfortable silence as they admired the way the water came back to the shore time and time again, shielding the other's flame as they used the lighter in the wind. 

"I'm not tryin' to be nosy, but I mean, you already went through my fuckin' phone-" 

Ian frowned and began to protest, "I didn't! I told you, I-"

"Whatever," Mickey interrupted, waving Ian off as he grew more serious, the smoke dangling absently between his fingers, "What is it you were tryin' to forget?"

The waves ahead softened as Ian's head spun, the question already hanging so heavily in the back of his crowded mind, "I think, maybe, I was tryin' to forget someone, an' not something." 

Not usually one for advice, Mickey nodded and gazed down at the sand for a moment, remembering a time when he'd tried to do the exact same thing, " You know, after a while, it can get fuckin' tiring to pretend shit never happened to you. It did, but it makes you tough. It makes you…you just can't drink a memory away." 

Two years was replaying in Ian's mind like a broken tape, and Mickey was right, he'd never be able to erase any of it. With a crack in his voice, he asked, "How do you- What the fuck does it take, then? Am I just supposed to fuckin' deal with it?" 

Ian's words nearly transitioned into tears; Mickey noticed and continued, "I think, maybe, shit just fades. Like, you remember the first time you fell off your fuckin' bike? Bet it's just a blur now, though. Whatever, whoever, you're tryin' to forget-" 

"It hurts a lot more than when I crashed into the curb and sprained my ankle, though," Ian's voice was quiet now, willing himself not to lose his composure. 

"Yeah, but, that hurt pretty bad at the time too," Mickey added with a shrug, considering the fact that everything seems a little more painful when your first caught off guard. Both men dug their heels into the sand like children at the beach, tossing tiny scoops onto the others shoes as they blew smoke into dark.

With a curious turn, Ian tested his luck, "You- you okay, with earlier? That guy gunna come back for you?" 

"Ah," Mickey breathed out a thick cloud, tapping it on a rock and watching the ash slip to the sand, "To be completely fuckin' honest, I have no idea."

"Why was he so pissed off?" Ian asked cautiously, waiting for Mickey to snap at any moment, but to his surprise, he hadn't. 

"I, uh, hired off some of his workers for a better pay. I mean, with a decent staff, I got shit done, and I guess he lost his business, too." Ian could swear Mickey sounded just a tad scared, although he still didn't understand the gun. Or maybe he did. 

"You don't sell car parts, do you?" 

With a nervous laugh, Mickey stared down at his tattoos as he seemed to do when his fingers began to shake, "You ain't just figuring that out now." 

"So, that promotion-" 

Another restless laugh, "More like a fuckin' death sentence, yeah." 

A freezing wind blew a wave too close to where they sat, soaking the ankles of their jeans as they scrambled back towards where they'd parked the bike. If the clouds above weren't so common, Ian wouldn't have been so sure that Seattle was about to get hit with another storm. 

"I'll drop you off, look's like it's bout to fuckin' pour again," Mickey talked louder, straining to raise his voice above the crash of waves growing stronger with each minute, "You on fifth?" 

"Yeah, uh," Ian took a step closer before Mickey had slid onto the bike, "I've got, like, three beers up there- you could come help me finish those off?" 

"Promise you won't ask me to fuckin' dance again?" Mickey asked, knowing full well that he'd been the drunk dancer and Ian had simply showed off.. 

"Yeah, alright," Playing along with a genuine smile, he felt ecstatic, despite the rain had seemed to be making it’s timely comeback. The puddles on the cement flew by as they rushed through the oncoming storm, each illuminated by the city lights, and Ian was coming to the conclusion that he didn’t mind the rain so much.

It wasn't long before Ian shouted the last direction and they pulled into an underground parking-spot that Ian had no use for anymore. Elijah's car wouldn't be there to take up space, and for the first time, he was relieved that it was empty. 

"We can use the escalator from down here," Ian commented as Mickey started heading towards the stairs, responding with a surrendering sigh and muttering 'fine' as he followed the red-head through the sliding doors. 

"So, my apartment," face growing red as he remembered the mess he'd left behind, Ian suddenly wished he was on a floor much higher, "It's not-"

"I don't give a shit, man," As if he knew what Ian was about to say, and because he'd most likely seen much worse, it really didn’t matter what the place looked like. It wouldn't matter if it was completely empty, Mickey thought to himself, because he simply didn't want the night to end. 

It wasn’t until they reached the door that he'd realize the knob wouldn't turn without the key. 

"Hold on," Ian mumbled, and began to search his pockets for a chain that he knew had to be somewhere. 

"Ian, I-" Mickey didn't seem worried about making it through the door, his gaze flickering from Ian's eyes and down to his lips, taking a step closer as his hands slid out from his pockets, abandoning the key. 

No words came to mind, and so instead of talking, Mickey quickly filled the distance between him and Ian.

Their skin was still chilled from the night, but both men's blood ran warmer as they're lips met, and neither made a further move for only a second long. When Ian's palms found the skin beneath the other man's shirt, Mickey kissed back harder, causing the red-head to find balance in the wall behind him. 

It wasn't until the elevator doors opened and rang with a loud 'ding' that Mickey pushed away from the wall, rushing to fix his hair and clothes like they had been simply talking in the empty hallway. Caught in a bit of a dreamy haze, Ian's stare was caught on a pair of swollen lips and an untucked shirt. 

The bliss only lasted until the man who'd stepped off the elevator coughed, loud enough to get Ian's full attention, as he was obviously trying to do. 

Suddenly remembering the waves, Ian felt his heart slam into his ribcage with the same velocity of the winds that sent them crashing into the shore. 

"Elijah."


	4. Chapter 4

As if his shoes had filled with cement and his tongue with cotton, Ian stared down the hallway like a deer caught in headlights, frozen where he stood. Two pairs of eyes were on him, waiting expectantly, but the one million thoughts that he'd planned to say had crumbled into rubbish. 

"Uh," Elijah's eyes narrowed at the unexpected sight, his stare quickly falling on Mickey. It didn't take a detective to assume what he'd just interrupted, "There's a bike in my spot?" 

It's not your spot anymore, Ian wanted to argue, but his lips were glued shut. A moment passed as Mickey peered over at Ian, waiting for a response that wasn't coming before he decidedly took it upon himself, "'S that a fuckin' problem?"

It seemed surreal as Elijah ignored Mickey's comment, staring over the shorter man's shoulders to meet Ian's wide eyes. Soaked with rain, he casually ran his fingers through his damp, spiked hair, "Is, uh, this the owner of the bike? Really, Ian- this guy? Listen, I wanted to talk to you." 

A humourless laugh brought Ian's heart beat to a short stop, staring up at Mickey to find that the smile across his face wasn't the same as the one he'd shared by the shore; the tug at his lips only appeared resentful. The look behind his eyes was doubtful, if not hurt, but on the surface he didn’t appear to care. Elijah turned to Mickey, annoyed, "What's your issue?"

"Forget it," Mickey shrugged and took a step back, looking over at the red-head once more except that it didn’t feel the same this time. The strain behind his words sent a dagger of guilt through Ian's chest, "Hey, uh, have a great fuckin' night. Good luck with whatever the fuck this is." 

"Wait-" Ian called out in desperation, but it was useless; Mickey was already roughly shoving past Elijah, his boots scraping against the floor. 

"Fuck him," Elijah said moments later, a small grin on his face that didn't seem remotely genuine, and Ian wished he'd stop moving closer; he'd been waiting for this moment, imagined all the ways it could've played out, but none of those situations had involved Mickey.

"Why are you here?" The words came out in a near whisper, unlike what Ian had intended; he'd wanted to stand tall and ask like the answer didn't mean a thing to him, good or bad.

It didn’t matter anyways, because the question had flown right over the his head, as if Ian had been speaking to a wall. With a familiar tone that Elijah often used to get his way, he took a step foreword and gestured towards the door, "Let me inside, Ian." 

"I don’t fuckin' get it," Ian shouted in frustration, pushing back on Elijah's broad chest with a weak-willed thrust as he choked down a cry, "You don’t get to tear me to pieces, and then just- just as I'm fixin' shit, come back n' fuck me up again!" 

"Look, I saw you," Elijah's voice grew somewhat serious then, steadying himself as he avoided Ian's glare, "At the bar, tonight. You looked happy, you know, cozy with him. Then you took off-" 

The idea that he'd been watching from the corner made Ian's fists tighten, the moment had felt so intimate with Mickey and he hated that he'd unwillingly shared it, "So, what, you thought you'd come and make sure I wasn't?" 

Elijah shook his head casually as if what he'd said meant nothing to him, "Baby, that's not you. You don’t need a guy like that-" 

The tears welling in Ian's eyes finally fell, dampening his freckled cheeks; Elijah quickly lifted his hand to brush them from his skin, only to have his arm pushed away with a rough shove, "How would you know what the fuck I need?" 

"Ian, stop-" Elijah was trying to grab his arm, but Ian pushed past him, shoving the key into the door, "Can I come in?" 

The oncoming shadow was threatening Ian's verging composure, his hands trembling and his throat swelling as he tried a few times to spin the key. It was almost unbearable when he turned to say goodbye, and Elijah's face was only inches from his own. 

"You don’t want this," Ian stammered, only repeating what Elijah had told him, and exhaled an unsteady breath, "Said it yourself, Eli." 

"Didn't mean everything I said," He argued desperately, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming ringing in Ian's ears. Stumbling through the apartment's frame, Ian only met the other man's eyes for a moments time longer, and wondered if it'd truly be the last time. 

"Ian, please-" 

"Bye, Elijah," He managed to choke out, before his knees shook like there'd been an earthquake and his body crumpled to the floor.

The knock that followed only caused the temporary panic inside his mind to worsen, and he crawled next to the door, leaning his back against it as Elijah muttered pleas from the other side. A softly spoken 'I miss you' caused Ian's body to rock, attempting to stifle sobs and only making it harder to breathe. Everything he'd thought he wanted was standing on the other side of the door, asking for his attention, and he ignored it with tight lips. It didn’t matter what he was saying, because every word sounded fabricated, like he'd rehearsed it in the mirror; if he'd claimed to love Ian, he might've even laughed.

Minutes might've passed before the familiar voice faded into silence once more, or maybe it had been an hour. The floor seemed like the only reasonable place to be, so Ian sat and soon, he no longer cried. Instead, he stared blankly back at the wall like it held the answers he seek. Was it jealousy, he wondered, that had sent Elijah back with the goal to ruin his night? Because for his desire to be at all genuine, he was sure that there wouldn't have been a need to pack up and leave in the first place. 

As he contemplated whether or not to simply lay his head down on the cold tile and close his eyes, a vibration from his back pocket made him groan. It shouldn't have been much of a shock, though, that the text wasn’t from Elijah; Ian was convinced now that his only mission had been to come racing back like a hurricane, destroying everything and leaving behind nothing but rubble. 

Instead, it was from the number he'd ironically saved under 'Hudson.' 

_Out front. Saw Blondie storm out. U wanna ride?_

-

It was just as Mickey was about to ignore a red light and pull through the intersection, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle bars, that he looked back Ian's apartment one more time. The front doors flung open and Elijah stepped out and started towards his car, his feet heavy on the pavement as he searched desperately through his phone; Mickey thought he might've been looking for somewhere else to stay the night. 

With a sheepish grin, he drove off to the left and waited for Elijah's car to skid out before quieting the engine, flicking the kickstand before he set a steady foot on the ground. 

A moment after he'd sent a quick text to Ian, his phone rung back; however, it wasn't from the red-head ten floors up. Checking the time, Mickey groaned as he realized it was nearing one in the morning; none the less, the messaged was written in all caps, 'GET BACK TO AUTO SHOP. NEED HUDSON.' 

With momentary panic, he considered driving away and saving Ian a night of what couldn't be much more enjoyable alone. It'd taken too long, though, "Ian, uh-" 

The red-head hurdled down the front steps with an apologetic expression readied across his face, "Mickey, shit- I'm sorry about tonight." 

"Guy seems like a piece of work," Mickey shrugged, his grin no longer forced as Ian nodded eagerly in agreement, "I'm, uh, sorry too." 

Confused, because Elijah was the one who'd been uncivil, Ian's eye brows raised as he asked, "For what? You didn't-" 

"Fuckin' work," Mickey gestured to the phone in his hand, frowning because he would've rather called in sick but that wasn't a privilege of his job, "I gotta go , I didn’t'-"

"I'll come with," Ian argued, "You're the boss now, right?" 

"Ian, it's not what you fuckin' think-" 

"Forget it," Ian interrupted, not bothering to ask for permission as he slid onto the back of the bike, "You're the one who said it's getting dangerous, so if you die-" 

The engine roared over whatever else Ian was about to say, as Mickey broke all his unspoken rules; don’t involve someone in the business unless they're getting paid, and avoid those who actually care about you, because they'll eventually make it harder to do the job right. With Ian's hands wrapped warmly around his sides, Mickey looped through the maze-like city streets and wondered how much it would take to convince the other man to wait outside. 

The auto shop didn't have any windows, and Ian would've assumed the building was completely empty if they hadn't pulled up out-front and heard mumbled conversation from behind the garage door. Mickey slid off the bike before turning, "Stay the fuck outside, alright?" 

The desperation in his voice wasn't hidden, but Ian still shook his head, "No, I'm coming in." 

It was hard to find annoyance in Ian's stubborn devotion not to leave him alone, and Mickey found himself frustrated as his heart started racing, "Fuckin' Christ, you're relentless." 

"I don't want to-" 

A short-lived kiss caught Ian off guard, nearly moaning as Mickey pulled him closer for only a second, as if his persistence had both pissed him off and turned him on. A moment later, they broke apart and Mickey muttered a defeated, "Fine, stay quiet." 

The front door was ignored as Ian followed Mickey behind the building, moving a couple propped boxes out of the way before he jammed a key into the lock. Inside, it was much brighter and more alive that Ian had expected from the shady, crumbling brick exterior. Even before they'd walked in, a cloud of smoke flooded out from the frame and the distinct smell of weed brought Ian back to growing up in south Chicago.

"Oi! What the fuck is this?" Mickey stormed foreword, raising his arms in disbelief as looked down at a bong on the table, surrounded by workers who looked like they hadn't been productive in hours, "The fuck am I here for?" 

It wasn’t surprising that the walls weren't lined with tools, but Ian's curiosity got the better of him and he peered over at a stack of loose tires that didn’t seem to carry a purpose. It appeared ominous until he took a small step backwards to get a better look, and noticed with a small gasp that the insides of the wheels weren't empty. 

Someone at the table was watching unsurely, and ignored Mickey's rant in favor of nodding in Ian's direction, "Who's your friend, Hudson?" 

Tightly wrapped bags lined the inside on one of the rubber tires, and it seemed as though someone had taken a break because Ian caught sight of a box next to the wheels; black tar was pressed into solid bricks, waiting to be shoved into the car parts, covered, and shipped off by hand.

"Uh, could be our new falcon," Mickey lied, but Ian took the hint and stood behind him, as if he knew what the hell was going. 

The people surrounding the crowded table looked like they'd come from a part of Seattle that Ian hadn't visited yet; a man with spiked hair and tattoos covering more skin than Ian had considered possible was addressing Mickey, and a woman who watched with interest was sporting a patched leather jacket and hair so bleached that it was nearly white. 

"Fuck, J- the shithead was all talk, bet the gun wasn’t even loaded," Mickey was arguing, but he'd heard the bullet fall into its chamber and the memory made his spine shiver. 

"Right," J sounded doubtful, nodding to the stacks of wheels, "So what, you're sayin' tomorrow when I pull that fuckin' tow truck out, I'm not gunna find a fuckin' black car riding my ass into a dark ass mother fuckin' alley? Bullshit, Hudson." 

"Fuck it," Mickey waved J's complaints off, nodding instead to the woman wearing leather, "Ayala, can you get that fucker to meet a day late?" 

"What're you gunna do in a day?" A man who hadn't spoken yet, seemingly innocent face with an outfit that could give anyone the idea that he was still in college, asked as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

Pacing the cement floor for a minute, Mickey eventually answered, "I'll figure somethin' out." 

J snorted, unamused, "Like what?" 

"I said," Mickey was walking towards the exit now, sounding as if he was ready to kill, "I'll figure it the fuck out." 

Until they were back outside, the door shutting with a slam behind them, neither man spoke a word. It took a few seconds before Ian had regained his own voice, shaky as he stammered out, "H-heroin?" 

The fear Mickey saw behind his green eyes was distracting for a moment, as it felt too familiar; it wasn't the first instance he'd let someone down, but for a reason he wasn't sure of, Ian's disapproval stung worse than time and time before. Talking through gritted teeth, he asked, "You fuckin' get it yet?" 

As if it would only make it worse, Ian kept his eyes on the ground and kicked at his own feet, "Yeah, uh, I get it. Sounds like you've got work to finish. I'll grab the bus." 

There was a part of him that wanted to argue, and another that wondered if it was worth it to try, when Ian was probably better off calling the last guy who'd shown up on his doorstep. As he spun the key and watched as Ian pulled a hood over his red hair and headed towards the closest bus stop, his whole body aching with the urge to drive up beside him and offer a ride home. Only, he didn't. 

The streets were nearly empty now, and Mickey stared straight ahead as he hastily pulled away from the building. Instead of work, years of pushing people away was all that flooded his mind; his sister and brothers had all become burdens over time, and the people he'd shared space with quickly transitioned into ignored phone calls- his lifestyle didn't include 'friends'. 

'Work with us,' Mickey had once asked a man who'd he hadn't known long, but he had a bright smile and a carless attitude that was nothing if not irresistible. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd be a perfect fit, but it didn’t matter anyways, because the job came with pros and cons.

It'd been a while since he'd thought back on the night of the robbery, and Mickey pulled back the throttle restlessly, aching to distract himself. It'd happened fast, he recalled; his team had put their guns back, readying them to be cleaned later on, when a group of masks busted open the garage door. It was because they wouldn't unlock the safe that the masked man panicked and pulled the trigger, and then it only took seconds before another surrendered the numbers and they'd lost everything, including the one who'd put his reckless trust in a criminal who'd he'd thought was called Hudson.


	5. Chapter 5

The traffic outside had quickly grown into background noise, and Ian instead hummed along to the radio as he swept the tiled floor and waited for someone that needed shelter from the rain. It was normal that a straggler would stroll in minutes after they'd opened the place up, dripping and ready to drink endless cups of coffee until the storm passed; as of now, all the tables were empty and awaiting a mess. 

"You see the specials?" The cook called from behind the breakfast bar, and Ian shook his head no, "We got eggs! A shit ton, any way they want 'em!" 

That wasn't much of a special, but Ian stifled a laugh and nodded back at the older man who proudly wore a chef hat as he cooked whatever the hell he wanted. Scribbling 'eggs' onto the top of notepad, Ian slipped the small stack of paper back into his waist pouch and sat down at an empty booth, staring out the windows thoughtlessly as the early rain whipped the glass and car lights shone like bright blurs through the water. 

A coffee he'd poured the minute he'd walked in at eight in the morning was barely warm now, but Ian hadn't slept for a minute last night, instead simply hours of tossing restlessly beneath the sheets. It wasn't as if he didn't know that Mickey wasn't exactly legitimate, so the question of why he'd let him drive off into the dark as he shivered at a bus stop had kept him wide awake. 

An older man with a scarf and a pair of glasses that sat loosely over his crooked nose waddled in, mumbling a usual grumpy rant about living in Seattle as he compared it to hell; Ian thought he might've been exaggerating. 

"You're still young, Leonard," Ian argued as he greeted the regular with a hearty pat on the back, knowing that he'd be expecting a coffee any second now, "Why don't ya move somewhere warmer? California, maybe?" 

"Oh, you know," Leonard's voice had matured along with his age, and Ian had to lean foreword if he wanted to hear whatever the old man was trying to say, "My ol' caddy can't make it more than five miles no more. Not on todays highways." 

The coffee spilled a bit as Ian laughed, setting the hot mug down with a napkin and a spoon, "Alright, well- here's hoping the sun will come out today, right?" 

"Right, right," The old mad distracted himself with a newspaper and his drink, and Ian prayed that it wasn't enough caffeine to kick start an inevitable heart attack. It was quiet again, except for the flipping of loose papers and Ian's broom scratching the tiled floor. 

Pictures and posters hung off the wall, some that Ian had picked out himself, and he absently straightened the frames as he busied himself with a set of mindless daily necessities. The job didn't exactly require skill, just extensive patience and a knack for memorizing a menu; the customers could be a drag, but he tried to focus on the ones that smiled and wished him a good day. 

It wasn't until lunch that the manager would normally come in; it'd been a year and a half under her employment, and Ian had proved himself valuable enough to handle the morning rush alone. Until then, he could easily assume that only a few people would stop and indulge in an actual meal; Seattle wasn't populated with many active breakfast people. 

As Ian ran a wet rag over the bar and listened to Leonard complain about an article in the paper, the familiar sound of the chime over the door had merely sounded like background noise.

"Table for two?" 

The part that bothered Ian the most about the sight he was then met with, was that Elijah had never bothered to visit him at work when they'd been together. Siding with a small brown-haired lady who was giggling about the rain and holding onto his ex-boyfriend's arm like they'd known each other for years, Ian found himself startled as he stared absently at the two waving hello and helping themselves to a booth. 

She was oblivious and giddy, unaware of the way that Elijah ignored whatever she was smiling about to peer over her tiny body, meeting someone else's stare instead. It sent shivers across Ian's freckled skin that he knew exactly what the other man was saying, without speaking a word- I can make you jealous too. 

With legs that walked surely and with confidence that Ian had pulled from his own ass, he turned to Elijah's date and smiled wide, as if morning was his favorite time of the day, "Can I get you somethin', sweetheart?" 

"Oh, I like this one," The woman giggled again and blushed for a moment, and Ian felt a little better as he caught Elijah's scowl out of the corner of his eyes, "Can I get a coffee? Baby, you want one too?" 

'Baby,' Ian repeated to himself, and laughed the moment he'd turned away; it wasn't a secret that he'd hated the puppy-dog names, and yet now he didn't say a word. Pouring a mug to the brim with boiling coffee, much too hot for consumption, he was sure to set that specific cup down in front of Elijah. 

The time on the clock had only just began to near ten in the morning, and that's when Ian pieced together the impromptu date; after spending the night with a woman he'd probably just met, Elijah had decided to show her off where he knew Ian would be, little remorse shown as his hand trailed up the stranger's thigh each time that Ian let his eyes stray to where they sat. 

The moment the woman disappeared into the bathroom, Ian was on the verge of tossing their breakfast across the room and watching it become inedible as the plate smashed around it. 

"You know," Elijah was smiling, but it wasn't in any way comforting or friendly, "I'd say we make a pretty cute couple, don't you?" 

"Oh, fuck off," Ian muttered as he set down the plate of eggs with a shaking hand, wishing that Elijah couldn't see his trembling fingers or hear the cracks in his voice, "You gunna tell her you're gay, or is that second date material?" 

The rain against the glass hit louder as the wind grew, and Elijah's smile slipped from his face, "You know, Ian, you're not the only one who can show off-"

"I wasn't showin' off," Ian argued back, decidedly not bringing up the factual evidence that he'd been followed back to his apartment in the first place; dropping his voice lower as he looked up to find that Elijah's date was tripping over her heels on the way out of the bathroom, he leaned over and whispered, "But, I mean, count me down as impressed."

Pouring himself a second coffee, the cook eyed Ian with a curious stare as he paced the kitchen floor, avoiding the dining room to the fullest extent. Eventually, he shrugged and picked up a spatula, "You wan' an egg?" 

The loud grumble from Ian's stomach responded before he did. With an eager 'hell yes,' he leaned back against the fridge and anxiously sipped at his coffee in an attempt to calm his nerves. It was as if he was being forced to watch the nightmare he hated most play out in front of his own two eyes, and if the job wasn't so important, he might've walked out the front door. 

Instead, he reached for his cellphone. 

_Sorry bout last night. Work sucks, no matter what u do. U busy later?_

His fingers twitched over the keys, nervously rereading the message one or twice over because surely there was more to say; eventually deciding that he'd be willing to see Mickey again no matter what the details were, Ian hastily sent the text and stuffed his phone back into the pouch hung around his waist. 

By the time Ian had gained the willpower to wander back out into the dining room, the door was already closing and Ian peered through the foggy glass, watching as Elijah did nothing to shelter his date from the rain. The eggs on the plates weren't nearly finished, and a pile of loose change sat on top of a napkin; it wasn't much of surprise that he'd been two dollars short. 

It was almost the easiest shift he'd worked, because no customer following could nearly compare to the torture of serving Elijah. People came in wet and miserable, and Ian helped them with a grin on his face, even if it felt forced and fake; strangers wouldn’t know the difference, and left him tips that well covered Elijah's missing toonie. His manager sent him home later that afternoon, always pleased to walk in and find that absolutely nothing had gone wrong yet.

The walk home couldn’t have been longer than half an hour, but Ian got on the bus anyways. Completely dressed in his white collared uniform shirt and a pair of black slacks, he attempted to tidy his red hair as the bus rattled over pot holes, pretending not to notice as it drove quickly by the apartment building. It appeared afterwards that the bus route still had quite a ways to go, and he leaned his head tiredly against the cool glass, marvelling at parts of the city he'd never seen and finding that everything was a bit more beautiful when it was raining. 

Ominous as the building seemed, Ian shook off the eeriness and once again headed towards the auto-shop, reminding himself that Mickey was worth going all in. The front office was a façade, Ian realized now, and slid over the bare counter with a jump; with a few knocks on the door, he immediately heard the panicked shuffling of feet and boxes behind the thin wall. 

A few second later, J pulled back the door only a foot, as he might when any other un-expecting stranger walked in looking for a new headlight. As he did a once over and recognized him as the red-head he'd barely met, J gestured for him to follow, and Ian shut the door behind him. 

"So," Ayala announced loudly, amusedly peering up from where she'd been concealing a bag inside of a tire wheel, "It's our falcon." 

J mimicked the calling of a bird that certainty wasn't one he'd ever heard before, and Ian shifted in his steps, looking around nervously because Mickey wasn't there. Unknowing of what the job of a Falcon was, and much too terrified to ask for the details, he tried his best to change the subject. 

"Where's Hudson?" 

J laughed aloud, "Wouldn't we both like to know." 

"We were actually just talkin' about you Falcon," Ayala's voice was slow and sultry, and Ian's skin blushed pink as he caught sight of her suspicious smile, "So, we know Hudson trusts you-" 

It was startling as Ian felt J come up behind him, something sharp against his lower back, causing him to stand dead still as the tattooed stranger leaned over his shoulder and finished, "But why the fuck should we?" 

The near-whisper sent a shiver down his spine, "You're- you're his team?" 

"Team," Ayala repeated dryly, staring down at the wheel, "Is that why we're the only two here? Three, my fuckin' bad." 

At nearly the exact same time, J and Ayala looked up as the back door swung open, and their faces dropped; Mickey's cheek was cut and bleeding, a dark bruise around his left eye accompanied by a split lip that had swollen now, and was seemingly past the point of ranting. 

J was quick to back off and rush towards his boss, "Hudson, you okay-" 

A gasp slipped from Ian's lips as Mickey's fingers curled around the neck of J's shirt, leaning in close enough that there was no mistaking him, "Heard you talking shit to red- What the fuck did I tell you when I hired your ass? I make the fuckin' rules." 

Under the light, Ian noticed that Mickey's tank-top was soaked with blood. 

"Shit, I was just playin'," J argued desperately and weakly shoved him back, brushing his shirt flat for a moment before he looked up at Mickey's current state, "The fuck happened to you last night Hudson?" 

"Didn’t I fuckin' say I'd figure it out?" The garage was silent for a moment as he stormed past J, his intense stare meeting Ian's as he crossed the cement floor. 

"The fuck are you doin' here?" 

It was the same question that Ian had been asking himself over the past few minutes, "I guess I wanted to see you." 

Mickey spoke in a hushed tone, ignoring the way that his workers undoubtedly eyed him with a mix of interest and fear, "Look, you walk in here dressed like the local friendly neighbor-" 

"This is what I work in-" 

"-and you don't know shit about what we do. Faith is hard to fuckin buy around here."

It wasn't hard to understand that this was obviously a tight knit group, but he became quickly distracted with the untreated gash across Mickey's cheek; as if they were alone in the garage, Ian tugged loose a restaurant napkin from his pocket and reached foreword, dabbing the wet blood from his face and frowning at the dry red stain beneath it. 

"How'd this happen?" 

The sudden touch had caught Mickey off guard, finding a moment later that he'd forgotten to breath as Ian's fingers brushed against his skin. It'd been a while since someone had even looked twice at a cut that wouldn’t usually register as important. 

"Fuckin' Mike," Mickey muttered, looking hesitantly away from Ian; they'd shared a stare that felt more like a silent conversation, "Followed him; wanted to make our point clear. Should've fuckin' known he'd snake his way into someone else's fucking ring, though. Soon as I- fuck, ow- I trailed him back to some fuckin' barn, 'nother two jumped out. Think he's working for the fucker that we've got on speed-dial." 

"'S that mean you aren't doin' this deal?" Ian asked curiously, nodding to the spares that sat stacked near the staff, "What if it's just a trick?" 

"Means we're gunna need back-up," Mickey corrected him. 

From where they'd been obviously eaves-dropping, Ayala casually spoke up as if she'd heard that before, "We goin' out on another suicide mission, boss?" 

Mickey snarled back, "Aren't fuckin' dead yet, though, are we? 'Cause an ambush doesn't mean shit when you've got guns." 

"Which we don't," J commented, and Ian wasn't exactly sure why a wave of tension seemed to flood the auto-shop; Mickey, however, felt a lot like puking as he remembered watching the men in masks drag a large case of weapons from their shop. 

It was decided in a moment that the boss would fix that problem too. 

"You hungry?" Mickey shot Ian an interested grin minutes later, enacting the first time he'd drunkenly asked the red-head out at the bar. It was more than a relief that he wasn't rejected for a second time, his chest suddenly lighter as Ian nodded back, trying not to appear as enthusiastic as he felt.

"So," J called out, a moment before they'd began to push they're way out the back door, "Red- you comin' with us tomorrow?" 

There was a moment where Mickey had almost shouted out 'no,' only to remember that Ian had been in the back room twice now and the staffs curiosity was becoming rightly justified. 

However, the idea caused Ian's heart to race with welcomed adrenaline, "Yeah- maybe you'll see why I'm worth it."


End file.
